Disney Dads and Discontentment
I look at this unframed black and white photograph of my Dad, my brothers and myself every day. It’s wedged on a shelf near my sunscreen on my bathroom counter. It reminds me that in as much as life is ever changing, some things will always remain the same.
These days, the Sailing Ship Columbia, is docked in Frontierland, and those aboard won’t see 12 flying elephants during their voyage, nor are guests of the Magic Kingdom likely to have a Disney Day with small crowds reminiscent of 1969. These are some definitive changes. But those brave enough to face the stroller-wielding families in Fantasyland will still witness Daddies nestled beside their littles in miniature mammalians while Mommies capture the moment on film.
And on the faces of many of these men, in the picture before the picture that will be posted to social media, there will still be that look of discontent. Throughout time, there have been people who have struggled with being content.
From the day of my first memory, which was around the time of this photo, my Mother has whispered to me, “You and your father are just alike..”
I’ve often wondered if Mom could really see that, or if she created the similarity with her whispers. Either way, she was right. I see it when I look at this snapshot of him with his children. It’s those uncaptured thoughts plummeting the heart downward when everything is–in actuality–just fine. It’s struggling to be content with the same things we will one day long for; he and I cannot be alone in that one.
We aren’t bad people, and this trait isn’t a flaw incapable of being used for good. Inasmuch as the lack of contentment can lead to wandering and depression, the struggle to acquire contentment is also the core of desire and creativity. My father wanted more, and he allowed this hunger to drive him to build and create things for our family. Being discontent also leads us to the cross, time and again. It’s the desire to have the ache fulfilled from the inside that draws us to the only One who can. Thankfully, that never seems to change either.
Despite the anhedonia-like undertones that could be ascribed to this post, I’m not trying to be disrespectful; I love my father fiercely. I just don’t know how to write honestly about my parents, my childhood, or my life and not acknowledge the good, of which there was much, without also remembering the hard. I have to write what’s true, it’s that part of me that’s just like my dad.
“Live. Love. Learn. Regret Nothing.” False. Regret SOME things. We need to allow ourselves to feel the searing pain of regret without fearing that we won’t recover. Because the truth is, we CAN completely acknowledge our wrong doing, feel horrible about it AND recover. God’s work through our defects is actually the definition of grace. When our failures are transformed and we grow there is a double blessing. We are restored AND God is glorified. The learning is beautiful and the growth is immeasurable, but it is only true growth if it comes from a desire to never do it again. Which by the way, is also known as a regret.
As I begin to read I am no longer looking for a salve. I am just absorbing the calm that has taken over the porch. There is a quietness that I am not only comfortable with, but relishing in. A light breeze moves the wind chimes and their bell-like sounds blend with the music of the sweet birds. An altered perspective is a glorious thing. And as I read a verse jumps from the pages of Isaiah and lands on my heart.
When my children were teenagers they taught me a game. The name of the game was, “Two Truths and a Lie” and it was a great way to pass time while waiting for our food at a restaurant, when standing in line at an amusement park, or while riding in the minivan. The conversational game was as simple as its name. One person would list two things that were true and one thing that was a lie. The others players would then guess which two were the truths and which one was the lie.
Recently, I met a young man named Ricardo. While chatting with the dark-eyed teenager, I made reference to Ricky Ricardo. Teenage Ricardo made little response and his blank stare sent a small warning that I may have offended him by comparing him to someone so old. Wanting him to understand the charm of this star from the era of black and white TV, I told him that Ricky Ricardo was considered incredibly handsome in his day.
“No way! You’re fifty?” the college coed working behind the counter at Sephora was practically yelling. Surely, this girl must have been a cheerleader at some point in her life, because her voice boomed off the glass counter tops and against the white walls reverberating her statement to the whole store. “You don’t even look that old! You’re older than my mom!” She gleefully handed me my bag, and I halfheartedly thanked the twenty-year-old. I left the store carrying my black and white bag filled with supplies to ward off the effects of being older than the cashier’s mom.
Back then, my husband and I spent a lot of time on the floor. Playing with Barbies and “toy guys”, wrestling and reading, helping someone put on their shoes, or changing a diaper. We lived in a modest three bedroom home, and each of the kids’ rooms held one bed and one crib. The boy’s room was a primary colored den of Legos and Hot Wheels, while the girl’s room was a pastel princess palace with patchwork quilts and bunny rabbits.
Diagnosed in-utero, Molly was greeted by a family ready to love her, which was only about the easiest task any of us ever had to face. She was agreeable, charming, and stunningly beautiful. She would eat whatever she was offered, play easily with her siblings or alone, and she had a smile that would stop strangers. Despite the lack of a cerebellum, her gross and fine motor skills developed with only a slight delay.
On the first day of October the world lost some of its beauty when 23-year-old Johnny Strange died in a wingsuit accident. The young man had been climbing and jumping his entire life. He holds the world record as the youngest person to have ever climbed all Seven of the World’s Summits. I never met Johnny Strange and were it not for Johnny’s Mother and our Facebook connection, I might not have known about his adventures. Johnny’s Mother, Dianette Wells is an old friend from High School, and we (like millions of other adults) have reconnected over the years through social media.
“I stood on top of the world with my son. I sat with him and the King of Bhutan—a small nation in the Himalayas—as we planned adventures to motivate the youth of that country. I even had the “pleasure”……. of representing him as an attorney on the well publicized car surfing charges. But THIS is the day. . . THIS is the day I prayed would never come.
What I learned and observed about my teenage Johnny through the two months we spent together in a tent in Nepal—and numerous other adventures across the world we shared while he was growing up—and what most of you already know, is that Johnny was a ball of boundless energy—boundless energy coupled with inspiration, determination, and love for his family. Johnny was always on our side. And he was also on the side of those less fortunate in all the countries we visited together. The poverty and the unjust treatment of good people upset him deeply. Johnny was enraged by the imperfection of human justice, by governments and people who just stood by, unwilling to stand up against the slaughter of innocent people. I will never forget the conversation I had a few years ago with Johnny and his step-mother Shamra about why we would not fund a trip to arm Johnny so he could parachute in and single-handedly kill Joseph Kony.
When I went to pick up my son’s body in Switzerland, I met the young man Alex who was with him on his last adventure. Shamra and I spent some time with Alex and climbed up the mountain where Johnny jumped. As I looked over what is truly one of the more beautiful views in the world, I listened to Alex speak about wingsuit flying in a way I could never listen to Johnny because I refused to hear it. Alex explained that to fly in a wingsuit made him feel almost superhuman. He could soar over trees and so close to the ground that he could high five you. And as I looked down the mountain, I could envision Johnny on that flight. And Alex explained that once you have had that feeling, you can never go back to a normal life. And even after watching Johnny’s tragic accident, making Johnny his 6th friend to die while flying, Alex told us with tears in his eyes that he would never stop. At that moment, I finally began to understand Johnny’s passion.
It has been said that, “Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear.”
The verse was quoted to my husband and I when we met with the senior pastor of a large church in California following the announcement of my affair and the firing of my husband from his ministerial position. We went to the home of this pastor seeking advice and encouragement at one of the scariest times in our marriage. (Not, THE scariest time in our marriage…just one of them. Trust me, affairs may be bad news but, now that we are a little further away from it, my husband and I would both contest that burying our 19-month-old little girl was far more frightening).
He has given us precious promises. Wow. That lovely truth started my mind spinning to the variety of places claiming God’s promises. I remember hearing a hymn instructing me to stand on the promises of God. I’ve read where Corrie Ten Boom said “Let God’s promises shine on your problems”. And I once saw a really pretty meme with a sunset and a barn that said “God’s promises are like the stars; the darker the night the brighter they shine.” It has to be true if it has a sunset and barn, right?
As I began to pray, one thing became clear. I could see with clarity all the promises that are not from God. He never promised a lot of things that I hope for. God never promised that my vitamins would absorb, that the dog’s vet bill would be less than I made in tips last night, or that my hair color would last. He never promised that I wouldn’t need two new tires when it’s most inconvenient, or that Bank of America would wave their policies for loan approval. God didn’t promise that that your child’s self esteem would be high, or your interest rates low. He didn’t promise that your Mother-in-Law would be kind, that your neighbors would be friendly, or that you would conceive a child. He didn’t promise that our jobs would be fulfilling, that we would be cancer free, or that babies wouldn’t die. God never promised that there wouldn’t continue to be wrongful executions. He didn’t promise that slavery would end. He didn’t promise that we would no longer see injustice in our homes, our work places, our country and our world. He didn’t promise a lot of things I hope for.
So what did he promise?
We are dependent on the second list because that is God’s promise. While the first list is glorious and certainly full of things I wouldn’t turn away, do you realize what happens when we have the first list without the second? If we were to receive all the things that we think we want, and not be clinging to God’s promise to sustain us when problems come knocking, do you know what we’d be? We would be a bunch of middle class Americans whining about all the other promises that were not fulfilled. In other words, to have the first set of promises fulfilled takes us exactly where we are today.
Jackie Sill 